


Freckle

by shea_btter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Stydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shea_btter/pseuds/shea_btter
Summary: When Stiles Stilinski was eight, he met his soulmate.





	Freckle

When Stiles Stilinski was eight, he met his soulmate. It was silly, but cute, because he was eight. People would coo, and listen to him rant, all thinking he was just being a child.

But Stiles Stilinski had a secret.

Him and Lydia Martin had matching freckles. Both a small brown fleck, both on the inside of their wrists. His left, her right. No one would believe him, so he never told a soul.

But he knew.

Because he was eight, and the love of his life had a matching freckle, and any time he looked into her eyes he lost time. And he knew no one else would be as lucky as him. 

* * *

Eight years later, Stiles was still very much convinced Lydia Martin was the love of his life; but it wasn’t just the freckle, and it wasn’t just her eyes. It was when she was half way across the school with Jackson Whittemore in a janitor’s closet doing _God_ knows what, and all he could feel was crushing _agony_.

It was when she’d be at home, alone, and she’d cry herself to sleep at night, and somewhere, somehow, some part of him _knew_. And all he wanted was to be there with her. To help her, to comfort her, because those eyes were too beautiful to shed tears, to hold pain.

It was when she lied through her teeth, and she battled an inner turmoil. He could feel it as easily as if it were his own.

He wondered if she could feel it. If she knew when he cried, when he lied, when he was angry or upset. She never spoke to him. She didn’t even know his name. 

* * *

Being friends with the love of his life was not something Stiles expected to happen any time soon. But that was all they were, and everyday when she smiled at him, when she laughed at one of his jokes, or cried in his arms, he broke a little more. Because he was broken, and she was broken, and she didn’t _need_ something broken, she needed something _whole_. And he knew she didn’t know. He knew she couldn’t feel what he felt, couldn't understand what he had known all along. So he stopped. He let her breathe, and he gave her space.

Because her best friend had died, and he didn’t know what to do.

* * *

Malia Tate was not Lydia Martin. She was not a genius, and she did not have long strawberry blonde hair that flicked in his face. She was struggling in school, her hair was short and brown, and she seemed to like him best out of all their friends.

Which was good, because they were dating.

But Malia Tate was not Lydia Martin, no matter how much Stiles tried to stop himself from dreaming that she was. 

Malia Tate was kind to him; she was strong-willed and dominating, and she was everything he needed. Everything he wanted to want.

But no one could be Lydia Martin except Lydia Martin. And Lydia Martin didn’t want to be with him. 

* * *

Lydia Martin wasn’t sure what hurt more. The fact that she was in love, or the fact that as soon as she thought she might be, the person in question stopped being in love with her.

It was tragic, in a very _Gone With the Wind_ sort of way.

Thinking about it only made it hurt more.

But...but she couldn’t _not_ think about it. Because she was in love with her best friend’s boyfriend.

And that hurt most of all. 

* * *

She loved it when he smiled. It emphasised his cheekbones, brought light to his whole face, and made his eyes clearer, brighter. Sometimes, when he laughed, he would move his right hand slightly in front of his face, like he was ashamed of his smile, or like he was trying to hide it. She could never understand why. She thought his smile was the most beautiful thing in the whole world.

But Lydia Martin had not been the cause of his smiles very much lately. Because Lydia Martin was not the girl Stiles Stilinski was in love with anymore, and he didn’t save special smiles for her, he saved them for Malia.

He saved them for a girl they rescued, a girl who relied on him to be the tether to her humanity because otherwise she would _destroy_ herself, and she knew Stiles would rather destroy himself than see those he cared about hurt.

Which was beautiful, and poetic, but stupid.

Because Lydia was bitter at Stiles and bitter at herself. Bitter at Stiles for giving up on her. Bitter at herself for taking too long.

Bitter at the both of them for not even _trying_.

But there was nothing she could do, not anymore, as she watched him slowly crawl back into himself, those beautiful smiles getting rarer and rarer, until Lydia barely saw his mouth quirk, barely saw his eyebrow raise, barely saw his nose twitch.

And she was bitter as she was in the hospital room, because he might not make it and she didn’t even get to _tell him_ — 

Lydia Martin was in love with a man who used to be her best friend. And it hurt.

* * *

Sitting by his bed as he lay unmoving was hard. She felt guilt coursing through her when Malia would stop by, but they had broken up, and Malia would simply smile as she took in the hand Lydia was holding, the crease between her eyebrows. She would put a hand on her shoulder, and Lydia could see the unspoken message in her eyes. _It’s okay. You’re okay. You will help him be okay_. And Lydia would try not to cry but it was _hard_. And it _hurt_. So she smiled a small smile, and held Malia’s hand with her other, and wondered when her life had gotten so messed up that she wasn’t sure why she ever even bothered anymore.

* * *

It was one of those moments when Lydia really got the time to look at Stiles, not just his face but everything. The way he breathed, the way his hand felt in hers, the myriad of tiny freckles almost everywhere her eyes could see. She noticed one slightly larger than his others, nestled neatly on the inner corner of his wrist. It was cute; a brown fleck amongst spots and dots, and she wasn’t sure why but her eyes were drawn to it.

She frowned.

When she held his hand, with her arm next to his, it looked normal. Like an arm next to an arm. But that wasn’t _really_ what she was looking at. She was looking at a brown fleck on her arm, on the inside of her wrist. 

They aligned. And she smiled through her frown, because it was absurd, but it formed a _heart_. And she wanted to laugh because it was _ridiculous_ but it was _Stiles_ and they had matching freckles and she wanted him to be awake for her amazing revelation but he wasn’t, and her smile fell. 

Standing, she leaned over him. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, and placed her forehead on his and _prayed_. Prayed to a god she didn’t believe in, to all the supernatural deities they had ever encountered—anything. She just needed him to _wake_ —

His breathing changed.

Leaning back, her eyes widened, because his _fluttered_. 

And he _breathed_. His eyes _opened_ and it took all her self control not to jump into that tiny hospital bed and cuddle him until his lungs gave out and he looked at her and—

_“Lydia,”_ he breathed. 

She willed herself not to cry. _“Stiles,”_ she whispered back.

And he smiled and she smiled and she told him about their matching freckles and he _laughed_. Because he had known for years, he said. Since they were eight. And she blushed and rolled her eyes when he laughed again because she couldn’t _believe_ he didn’t just _tell her_.

But he kissed her and it was okay, because she was okay and she would be _damned_ if she didn’t help Stiles until _he_ was okay.

Because she loved him, and she knew she would for an extremely long time.


End file.
